


To Strengthen One's Hands

by elliot_cant_write



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: IT'S THE TINY HOUSE THING, M/M, Oliver goes to London, i would die for Filippa Kosta, inspired by William Godwin but more on that later, low-key not depressing, takes place post-book, title is also inspired by Godwin although the phrase is taken wildly out of context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:34:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliot_cant_write/pseuds/elliot_cant_write
Summary: It was Filippa who got him to go to London in the first place, but it was someone else who made him want to stay.





	1. Chapter 1

The whole series of events that lead to it was so unlikely that Oliver was almost positive that Filippa had intentionally set him up. It had, after all, been her who initially suggested that he go to London.

(“Come on, Oliver. It could be fun! You could see Les Mis again, go to one of the museums, see a castle. It would be good to get out a bit.”)

Sure. He could see a castle. Hell, the whole country is full of them. He could see multiple. He could see like five castles, take pictures of all of them, and prove to Filippa that he was perfectly fine. Nevermind that he was in jail for ten fucking years and came out to find that his best friend had killed himself. He saw a castle! Everything was just great.

Okay. Oliver was not mad at Filippa, by any sense of the word, nor did he want her to think she was. She was clearly trying to help him, and if he was being honest, getting out of a familiar environment would probably be good for him. But just...maybe he wanted to make some choices for himself. That would have been nice. 

But it was fine. He bought the ticket for the airplane, made actual plans for what to do once he got there, and researched the weather to find out what to pack. 

(Once upon a time, Oliver had gone to visit James and had packed a lot of shorts and a lot of t-shirts thinking oh, it’s California and California is warm and sunny. Turns out James had neglected to tell him that San Francisco was an awful city where it was cold and rained constantly and nobody ever got to see the sun because all there was was endless fog. Oliver was never making that mistake again. Thus, research.)

Filippa, maybe because this whole thing was her idea, helped. Meredith too, albeit more reluctantly, since she at least had actually been to London before. 

“Traveling is not that great,” Meredith complained, letting a guidebook drop onto her face. “Seriously. And I know I’m just ridiculously fucking sick of going places, but I couldn’t be forced to leave a ten mile radius from this apartment.” She rearranged her legs so that they rested on top of Filippa’s. “Pip, we should take advantage of this. Come stay here.”

“I’ll consider it.” Filippa said brightly. She leaned over to show Oliver something in the book she had. “Look, Peterborough Cathedral. I think one of Henry VIII’s wives was buried there.”

“Which one?” 

Filippa shrugged, but Meredith answered. “Katherine of Aragon. Also Mary, queen of Scots.”

Both gave her a surprised look, and she rolled her eyes. “Please. Just because the two of you never payed attention in high school history doesn’t mean I didn’t. Put it on the list.”

Oliver obediently added it to the running list they had of places he should go. “You know, I could really plan this myself. I’m sure both of you have much better uses for your time.”

Meredith rolled her eyes again, only this time with a loud sigh to accompany it. “Please. I live here, so regardless I would still be present for all your planning. And Filippa loves me. And you. But mostly me.”

Oliver glanced at Filippa, and she nodded. “True. We’re in love.”

“Does Camilo know?”

“Hell yeah. He supports us.” 

“Aww, I’m glad your husband supports our relationship.” Meredith closed her book before flingling it onto the floor. “I think this is enough for one night. Oliver, what’s on the list?”

Oliver drew his eyes back to the top of the page and read aloud. “From Filippa’s original list, Les Mis, a museum, and a castle.” Meredith nudged Filippa’s shoulder and both girls laughed. “From our new list,” Oliver continued, shooting Filippa a look with one raised eyebrow. “Look at and/or ride the London Eye, ride one of the buses DC ripped off, cry at the Globe Theatre, go to the Natural History Museum and determine if it’s better than ours, go to the tower of London, go to the British Museum, see Harry Potter stuff and take pictures for Pip, see Karl Marx’s grave, see the London Zoo.” He looked up. “How on Earth am I to do this all within a week.”

“It’s a list of suggestions, not an itinerary.” Meredith said. She yawned, pushing her hair out of her face. “I’m tired. Do you all want to have a sleepover on the floor? It seems like too much work to go find a bed and I don’t want Filippa to perish on the streets of New York City.”

“You know, I always figured that it was going to be Alexander who slept on the floor and invited me to join him.” Filippa picked up all of the books and set them aside before pulling a blanket down off of the couch. “But I’m glad to be here with the two of you regardless.”

“I promise we don’t usually sleep on the floor.” Oliver said, contributing to the pile that Filippa was building by grabbing a few pillows. “We do own beds. Does Alexander?”

“We are stopping this conversation there.” Meredith stood up, slowly stretching. “I have to brush my hair before this, or it will never get unknotted. Be back in a minute.” She left, leaving Oliver alone with Filippa.

“Hey, I’m really glad you’re doing this.” Filippa said a few seconds later, reaching out to hold Oliver’s hand. “Trust me, I know how good it feels to get away after...well, after you’ve had a lot to deal with.” 

They were both quiet, listening to Meredith running the tap from the bathroom. 

“What if I like it there?” Oliver asked eventually, his voice low but not low enough to hide the uncertainty that he definitely did not want Filippa to be aware of. “If I stayed, would you be angry?”

“I wouldn’t.” Filippa said, and then, because she was honest, “Meredith would, but I think she’d get over it eventually. She’s very forgiving when she wants to be.”

“Are you talking about me?” Meredith asked, tip-toeing around the books, pillows, blankets, and people on the floor. She ran her fingers through Oliver’s hair. “Are you okay?”

Oliver glanced at Filippa before answering, but she just raised her eyebrows. No help there; he was on his own. Thank fuck he was good. “I’m okay.” He smiled, totally natural and not-at-all fake looking. “Do you want to turn the lights out?”

“God, I do everything around here for you people.” Meredith said good naturedly, hopping back across the room to flip the switch.

“Love you, Meredith!” Filippa called, cuddling into Oliver’s side. Eventually, Meredith joined them, and Oliver fell asleep with Meredith’s head crushing his arm and Filippa’s hair tickling against his neck.

It was nice.

Maybe he would come back, for them.

•

In the end, it was Meredith who took him to the airport. 

“Do you have everything you need packed?” She asked again, even though they were much closer to the airport than their apartment by that point and there was no way he would make the nine o’clock flight if they turned back. He gave her a look, to which she rolled her eyes. “Don’t even try to act like I’m being ridiculous here. We went to visit Colin and Alexander and you brought no socks. I think my questions are justified.”

“That’s not fair, I brought one sock. That was actually yours, but it was still a sock.”

“All my friends are ridiculous.” Meredith muttered to herself, clearly still intending for Oliver to hear her. “Why are all my friends ridiculous?”

“Wait, that’s my door!” Oliver blocked off his own smartass response, nearly falling nose first into the dashboard as Meredith slammed on the breaks. 

“I thought you were taking British Airways?” Meredith asked, waving apologetically at the man driving the car behind them. 

Oliver shook his head. “Nope, American was cheaper.” He popped the lock on the door and reached around the back to grab his bag. Pausing, he shifted from foot to foot. “Well, bye, I guess.”

“God, you’re such a dork, Oliver.” Meredith reached out to grab his hand, smiling at him, though he could see she was still a little sad. “Be safe, okay? And have fun. Oh, and call me!”

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll miss you.”

And she squeezed back. “Ditto. Now go catch your flight before you actually do have to take British Airways.”

Oliver shut the door, giving Meredith one last wave as she pulled out of the drop-off line and then turning to check his watch. He had about an hour to get through security, and then it was time for take off. After that, it was only a five hour flight between him and London.

Oliver sighed dramatically, only attracting the attention of the woman standing next to him, who had the decency to look almost concerned. Why the fuck had he let Filippa talk him into this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Oh my gosh an actual multi-chap thing? The world is ending. That being said, I think this will end up being three parts? I know where I want to end up, but I'm not sure if it will take long enough to get there to warrant three chapters.  
> 2\. The title comes from the quote "Government will not fail to employ education, to strengthen its hands, and perpetuate its institutions". So yeah. Makes no sense in the context of both that and this, but I liked the phrase. I think it was from one of his Political Justice things? Doesn't really matter.  
> 3\. I hope James actually lived in San Francisco. Also, I used to live there some I'm allowed to talk shit about it.  
> 4\. I hope all airports are based of off my local one, because that's how I wrote this. Also, there is virtually no difference in price from JFK to London with the two airlines mentioned. I'm claiming creative liscense.  
> 5\. More on Godwin next chapter. Also, I feel like young William Godwin was lowkey hot on like an intellectual level. That was mostly a joke. I'm sorry the end of this sucks, graduation is tomorrow and I'm highkey stressed. (not that i'm graduating, I've just got to perform and then two graduation parties and I want to dieeee)  
> 6\. I feel like everyone quit reading this when I called the father of anarchy hot. So I'm going to quit rambling now. Tumblr if penguinsarebetterthanpeople if anyone wants to rant about criminal minds, because I'm six seasons in and perpetually want to rant about criminal minds. But for real, thanks for reading, kudosing, commenting, etc!


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver had slept through the majority of the first half of the flight and half that he had been awake, he had allowed himself to be fully absorbed in an audiobook (a biography of Elizabeth of York, courtesy of Meredith). Which was good, because he had no desire to sit in a seat for seven hours while fully conscious of his surroundings, but he also hardly felt like drinking excessively while on an international flight. Not to mention that Filippa would have killed him if he got arrested for public intoxication before he even got there. 

When the plane did finally land in London, it was very late and very dark, and for the first time Oliver began to maybe regret his choice of sleeping for the better part of six hours. But also not really, because he was still reeaally tired. Regardless, he trudged across the airport to get his luggage and as soon as he stepped outside of the airport, he picked up his phone to call Meredith.

It was still a reasonable time back home, so she answered immediately. “Hello?”

“Hey Mer.”

“Oliver, hi.” He could perfectly imagine her as she said that, sitting on the air of one of their chairs with one arm resting on her stomach while her head tilted to the side. Familiar. “How was your flight? Filippa’s here, by the way.” There was a shout in the background that Oliver assumed was Filippa trying to greet him. 

“The flight was fine.” Oliver said, stepping to the side as a woman rushed past and nearly ran over his foot with her suitcase. “Your book was really good.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Meredith said, pleased. “Have you checked into your hotel yet?”

“Not yet, I’m about a five minutes walk away.” He yawned. “I think I’m going to pass out as soon as I get in.”

“Didn’t you sleep on the plane?”

“I did. Just really tired.”

“I won’t keep you then. Pip says to make sure you be safe and also take lots of pictures.”

Oliver laughed. “I will. Love you.”

“Ditto. Goodnight.”

And with a click, Meredith was gone. 

Oliver tucked his phone back into his back pocket and set off towards his hotel, suitcase rolling along beside him. It was drizzling, which was gross, but fine. As soon as Oliver got checked in, he changed into new (dry) clothes and without bothering to get settled in at all, fell face first onto the bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.

•

Oliver had mixed feelings about traveling. When he was younger, family vacations had been...less than enjoyable. His parents fought constantly, everyone was miserable, and his mother had some absurd idea that forcing all of them to go to the beach every summer would make them connect better as a family, when in reality the only thing it connected them in was their shared hatred of the ocean. Not to mention, Caroline had vegetarian phase for all of middle school and most of high school, so every night was finished with a huge argument between her and their mother over salad, of all things. And that was back when they all had a decent relationship with one another. 

Four days in (tour bus, London Eye, British Museum, Les Mis, Tower of London, some castle, and an hour long train ride to Peterborough Cathedral), Oliver was absolutely shot. He had always figured that the part of traveling that was so exhausting was the being-around-people part, but even alone, he was more than ready to go home and sleep for a week straight. 

So fuck the day four itinerary that he and Filippa had set up. If he really wanted to go to the National History Museum, the Globe Theatre, or ‘Harry Potter stuff’, he could always do that the next day. His plane did not fly out until after 5pm, so there was technically time.

Oliver did not bother to wake up until after ten o’clock, something that felt wonderful after the past few days of seven am mornings. Then he did not bother to actually get up properly (meaning he was wearing real clothes and his hair looked like one could reasonably say it was brushed and not be deemed a liar) until closer to eleven. 

Leaving his hotel room, Oliver walked about ten minutes to some cafe he had taken to buying breakfast from. He sat down in the corner, got a bagel, and scrolled through his phone. 

At Filippa’s advice, he had only brought three books with him, and at the time it had made sense because he was supposed to be doing things. But still, he had gotten through one and a half on the plane and had finished the final one the night before. Since he didn’t want to die of boredom on the way back, he desperately needed to hunt down a bookstore and pick up one or two new books. Luckily, according to his research, there was a small bookstore only three blocks away that had opened about an hour before. 

Having finished his bagel, Oliver paid and set off down the street. Eventually he found the bookstore, grandly called The Books of Kings. Ironic, for a place that’s window display consists of three YA books, that dreadful Chernow biography, some mediocre looking mystery novels, and an abridged version of War and Peace. Not that Oliver was (that much of) a book elitist, but really. 

Still, he was bored and this seemed like a good enough option, so he headed in, bell dinging cheerfully as he did. 

Putting aside the outdoor appearance, the inside was quite nice. Very aesthetic-y. The floors creaked, the lighting was poor, and the whole place both tasted and smelled of dust. In short, it was practically orgasmic for a book nerd. Filippa would have flipped her shit if she was there. 

Oliver wandered to the back of the shop, amusing himself by looking for what each of his friends would have chosen. Having lived together for four years, they were all intimately aware of one another’s reading habits. Filippa was the one with a thing for the classics, all of the classics, but especially Oscar Wilde as of late. And she loved anything Russian. Meredith, on the other hand, was into biographies. Half of their apartment in New York was covered in them, on anyone from Elizabeth of York to Henry Clay. It was quite unsettling, actually, to fall asleep on the couch and wake up to see Aaron Burr’s beady eyes staring into his soul. Alexander liked horror, to the point that the rest of them had always found it vaguely concerning. Wren, who favoured YA above all else, in particular hated it. Richard, although he loathed to admit it, always had a soft spot for happy books, regardless of the genre. It had always been kind of sweet, in a weird way; Richard was eternally their villain but he was the only one who couldn’t stand a story without a happy ending. James just liked fantasy, although out of all of them he probably knew the most poetry. And, of course, they had all read a frankly excessive amount of Shakespeare.

Oliver didn’t have a genre; he read everything and his recommendations tended to come out of the taste of his friends. He thought that was a good metaphor for his personality. 

Eventually, Oliver found a copy of The Last Man (on Filippa’s recommendation) and The Little Friend (surprisingly, one Meredith was fond of). The Last Man was appropriately dusty and The Little Friend was appropriately written on. In short, ideal.

He made his way back to the front of the store, only taking one wrong turn before emerging from the dark bookshelves into the much-brighter open area. Nobody else was there, so he was already reaching into his back pocket for his wallet when he walked up to the check-out counter where a young-ish guy was flipping through a book. “Hey,” He said, squinting in the bright sun as he set his two books down. “Do you take cards, or cash only?”

“Cash only.” The guy said, setting his book down with a loud crack. “Uh, you can pay in US dollars though, if it’s more convenient. It’s nine dollars and twenty-five cents, by the way. Or seven pounds.”

“Okay, awesome.” Oliver fished a ten dollar bill out of his wallet. “I’m almost out of pounds anyway, so thanks.”

“No problem,” The guy muttered. 

And Oliver reached across the counter and handed ten dollars to James fucking Farrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I'm STRESSED. This whole chapter was a wreck. It was supposed to be finished like two weeks ago before I went to Rome, but then I got stuck like five hundred words in and it just wasn't going to happen. So I started over once I got back, but I feel like it still isn't very good? Then it was supposed to be finished by last night, but instead I went and saw the Bandstand proshot (which was wonderful and deserves better and should have got corey cott a tony nom, but whatever). So that didn't happen anyway. And now I feel like the ending is particularly shitty but I'm too busy freaking out about having somehow managed to lose the only paper where I have the opening song to the musical I've been writing written down to care that much about trying to fix it. But it's fine.  
> Now for the ACTUAL info about this chapter:  
> 1\. We finally get to know how this relates to William Godwin! Long story short, after he decided to stop being politically problematic, everyone figured he was dead, but in reality he was off in London, with Mary Jane, Fanny, Claire, Mary, and Charles, collectively running a little book store. So that's the whole reason why this story is happening.  
> 2\. The name of the book store here is actually a very vague reference to a Mary Wollstonecraft quote! I was originally going to go with the same name as (or some variance of) Godwin's bookstore (The Juvenile Library), but no.  
> 3\. The part about everyone's taste in literature was high key my favourite part. Also, my new favourite hc is that Wren likes YA lit.   
> 4\. GUYS I LOVE OSCAR WILDE. I finally read The Picture of Dorian Gray on a flight and it was so GOOD.  
> 5\. Again, I just need to reiterate that the ending is the worst thing I've ever written and I apologise.
> 
> Next chapter will be up...sometime. And it will be including a tiny house, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver could pick out the exact moment that James realised he recognised him. It was subtle - James had always been fairly good at hiding things he didn’t want others to see - but his eyes widened for hardly more than a second before he got everything under control. It had always been his tell, one he clearly was unaware of. Oliver had always been tempted to tell him, but for some reason it had always seemed better not to. Nobody deserves to be unreadable.

James looked better than he had the last time Oliver had seen him. Less exhausted and definitely less stressed. He looked older than he should have, but frankly, Oliver should have expected that. All in all, he looked pretty fucking good for someone who had been supposed to be dead for the past six or so years. 

“James.”

He lurched back as if Oliver had electrocuted him, looking unfairly scared. “Oliver. I’m so-” He cut himself off, glancing at something behind Oliver. “One second, okay? Give me that and then we can talk.”

When Oliver didn’t protest, James quickly dashed off towards the front of the store, and returned only seconds later. “I wanted to close the shop.” He explained. “Figured it would be best if we didn’t have customers wandering in.”

Oliver did not bother to mention that he had been in there for like half an hour and not seen another person. He had questions. A lot of them. 

To start with:

“James. What the actual fuck?”

James pulled at the collar on his shirt, clearly trying to ground himself enough to gain control of the situation. “I know this is a lot, and you’re probably angry, and-”

Oliver cut him off. “No, you’re not going to diplomat your way out of this; you’re supposed to be dead, but you’re not, and I should be angry, but mostly I just want to hug you. And maybe cry. But also I’m so pissed at you.”

James laughed nervously. “To be fair, I think you’re handling this better than I am.” That was hardly an inaccurate analysis; James kind of looked like he was about to either pass out or start hyperventilating. 

“Just.” Oliver sighed. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I want to hug you, asshole. Come here.”

James hesitantly took a step closer to Oliver, looking the slightest bit terrified. That was valid. 

Hugging people who you had not seen in years and who you were kind of furious at was awkward to say the least. That being said, being able to feel that James was real and solid and alive? Oliver had never related to Alexander’s “kill or kiss you” quote more. 

“You can calm down a bit.” Oliver said, pulling away. “I...have a lot of feelings right now but I don’t want to make any irrational choices before I know what’s going on.”

“That’s responsible.” James crossed his arms, glancing repeatedly up at something behind Oliver. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

Oliver turned around, immediately spotting a security camera pointed right at them. “What?” He said, raising his eyebrows. “Are you going to kill me too?”

James winced and Oliver almost felt bad. Almost. “Please.”

Oliver relented. What did it matter? “Where?”

“I live right outside of the city.” James said. “I don’t know where you’re staying, but…”

“Your place is fine.” Oliver said quickly. “Hope you have a car.” 

•

They eventually did manage to get situated enough to drive to James’s house, or, more accurately, at lease situated enough to get in the car. Turning it on or disengaging the break seemed to be more of an issue.

“I just don’t understand why you thought the passenger seat would be on the left.” James said after a few seconds of both of them sitting in silence. “Or why you seemed so hurt when it wasn’t. Oliver, I’ve lived in London for half a decade. I got a new car”

Oliver sighed. “Just turned on the fucking engine.”

James turned on the fucking engine. “It’s a little bit of a drive, but it shouldn’t be so bad. Traffic out of the city at least should be calmer since it is fairly early.”

Oliver didn’t answer, and James didn’t say anything else, so all that encompassed the small car for the rest of the drive was the somewhat odd instrumental music James had playing from his radio. 

Eventually, the scenery outside of Oliver’s window became more rural, and what was actually happening was beginning to sink in. James wasn’t dead, but he had let Oliver think he was for years, and that was fucked up. Hell, not only that, but presumably he had let all of them think he had died. Unless, of course, they knew, which was even worse. Actually, that made a lot of sense. Holy shit, that made sense. He had thought that Filippa had been weirdly insistent that him going to London was a good idea. Meredith had too. Not to mention that Wren had literally been living in England as well. And if they all knew, surely Alexander did as well. Could he have really been the only one that didn’t know? 

Oliver’s hand immediately strayed down to the pocket he had left his phone in, but he forced himself to yank it back. He was not going to call Filippa to ask her if she knew James was alive while sitting in James’s car. That was weird, and he could wait. 

Oliver glanced over at James. He was very pointedly staring directly ahead, focusing more on the road than anyone Oliver had ever seen (well, maybe excluding Colin. Oliver once rode somewhere with him and Alexander and Colin was a scarily careful driver. Annoyingly careful.). Since James evidently wanted to enjoy what time he could pretend this was not happening, Oliver just sunk back down into his seat and continued watching outside of his window.

•

Eventually though, he had to ask.

“Why do you live so far away from where you work?”

•

So, cows. Oliver was from Ohio. He had seen a lot of cows in his life. He had seen a lot of fields in his life. Once he had gotten stuck behind a tractor for like half an hour while going down a one lane backroad which was half disintegrated. Point is, he was used to boring scenery. 

That being said, he was more than ready to get out of the car when James finally looked over at him and said they were almost there. 

The road switched from badly paved to gravel, and the car bumped its way through a small lane of trees, causing Oliver’s teeth to vibrate uncomfortably. After a small ways, the trees cleared to reveal a fairly large field with a not-very-large house sitting in it. 

Oliver couldn’t help it. “You left San Francisco just to live in a tiny house anyway?”

“The idea of a big space made me anxious.” James said, leaving it at that - an answer that really just brought about more questions. Although, it did align with the aesthetic of the bookstore.

Speaking of which.

“I can’t believe that you’re literally William Godwin.”

James just about crashed into the tiny house. “What?”

Oliver sort of smirked as James hurriedly put the car into park. “You’re presumed to be dead. I, in this scenario being Percy Shelley, have come to London for an unrelated purpose and accidentally found out that you are alive, here, and running an odd bookstore.”

“It’s hardly odd,” James said, slightly defensively. “And if you’re Percy Shelley, then I’ll end up hating you after you run away with my teenage daughter. Or, in this case, my cat.”

They were both putting off the inevitable. Neither of them had ever given a shit about the Godwins or the Shelleys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be four parts simply because I can't stand to look at this chapter anymore. It's awful and I'm aware it's awful, but I just need to let it go. I don't know why i thought it was good to write something centered around two characters I know I can't write. That being said.  
> Some notes:  
> 1\. The music James is playing is Brent Arnold's album. Specifically, Frontier Ballet, because that song is excellent.  
> 2\. I know very little about London and Ohio. I'm hoping you can reasonably live in a field in the former and that the later is just like rural VA.  
> 3\. This chapter had tiny houses! I love tiny houses so much and I always associate them with San Francisco for some reason. Next chapter should have more tiny house, plus the conversation I've been dreading writing since part two. And, if we're lucky, less talking about Godwin.  
> 4\. Hopefully chapter four will be better, and posted in a timely manner. I might work on something else first, but I'm caught up on Criminal Minds now and technically don't have an excuse to not be writing.  
> Thanks to all who read!!


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing was that Oliver had to meet James’s cat. Her name was Eleanor, and she was grey and surprisingly regal looking. Oliver felt that he and Eleanor could be good friends.

“I think she likes you.” James said, hovering as Eleanor rubbed up against Oliver’s leg. “She tried to drive out the plumber when he was here last week.”

“You have indoor plumbing?” Oliver asked. 

James nodded. “Indoor plumbing, heat, running water. This isn’t the 1700s, Oliver.”

Okay, sarcasm. The place really did look like it was out of an antiques catalog though. James seemed to have somewhat forgone his neat, scholarly aesthetic from when they were in school, and simply settled for a crossover between Jane Austen and an elderly cat lady. Not to imply that there weren’t books everywhere, because there were. Oliver and Meredith had picked up on the habit of watching HGTV for hours at a time, and in all of the tiny house shows they emphasised organisation and not wasting space. Clearly, James had not gotten the same memo.

“Which has more book, your shop or this place?”

“The shop.” James answered. “I keep most of my best ones here though. Mostly because I don’t want people like you coming in and touching them and ruining the covers.”

Oliver pretended to be offended. “That hurts. That really hurts.”

James just grinned, a sudden appearance of himself back before everything went to shit. “Want to see my fifteen copies of Frankenstein?”

“Not really. I think we need to talk.”

James’s smile slipped off. “Yes, of course.” He sort of shuffled around for a seconds. “Um, do you want to sit down?”

Oliver nodded, and James cleared some papers away from his tiny couch, rambling about sonnets and something Wren had written. Oliver sat down, and James hesitated briefly before sitting next to him. He made a point of being far enough over that he did not risk touching Oliver in the slightest, an effort that seemed just to make both parties more uncomfortable. 

A bit of silence, broken by James. “Do you, uh, want to start? I feel as if you should be in charge here.”

Oliver nodded, feeling like he was back on trial, but from the opposite side this time. Weirdly, this was what he had wanted to protect James from. “Why?”

James clenched his teeth. Oliver waited patiently. “I couldn’t deal with it. I’d see you, and then every time it hurt more and I hated myself and wanted to be someone, anyone else. I-I-I I felt like I was losing my fucking mind. You’re so good, and-” He buried his face in his hands. “Know that it was Banquo, in the times past, which held you so under fortune, which you thought had been our innocent self”

“God, James. You’re not fucking Macbeth.”

He laughed, shaky and miserable. “No, I suppose not. Macbeth isn’t the one who jumped from a tower.”

Oliver felt a spike of frustration, remembering every dreadful conversation they’d had fourth year, any point lost while running in circles of quotes and references. “You’re not Macbeth or anyone else, and I’m not Banquo, okay? We’re real people, and we’re going to have this conversation as real people. Or I’m leaving.”

“Right.” Oliver watched as James visibly pulled himself back together. “Point is, I needed to escape. We all knew what happened to you was my fault. I couldn’t stand the way Meredith looked at me like she was disgusted, or the way Alexander looked at me like he was disappointed, or how sad Filippa was, or Wren. I couldn’t keep looking at Wren. She didn’t know it was me, so she’d smile at me and then I’d brush her off like an ass and I couldn’t tell her why. I needed to get away from myself and try to find a way not to be such a fucking failure. You can understand that, right?” 

“It’s not a matter of whether or not I understand, because trust me, I do.” Oliver said, trying not to think about the look on Leah’s face when she had shown up that night. “But I thought you were dead, James. I got out, and you weren’t there like you were supposed to be, and Filippa was left to have to tell me.

“Speaking of which,” Oliver switched tracks. “Did everyone else know? Was I the only one kept in the dark?”

“Filippa knew,” James said, confirming at least part of Oliver’s suspicions. “She helped me out initially. Then we didn’t talk for a few years. She’s been emailing me off and on lately though.” He shrugged. “I guess that I should have known she was planning something. She never liked the idea of me totally locking myself away in a foreign country. Talked me into telling Alexander and Colin, too. Colin and I are friends on FaceBook and sometimes he sends me pictures of their cat. Meredith and Wren, though, they don’t know anything.” He gave Oliver that ridiculously vulnerable look again, the one that made Oliver want to either tear him apart of give him everything he ever wanted. “I wanted you to know. Filippa called me the day you got out, and I’ve wanted to tell you ever since. But I was afraid you’d hated me. Afraid you hate me.”

“Yes, like I hated you when you murdered someone,” Oliver said sarcastically. James winced, and he pulled back on the hostility. “Look, James, I just wanted you back. I forgave you for everything the second I saw you in the bookstore. I always wanted all of us to end up near one another after Dellecher, and I guess I still do. At least, I know I don’t want to lose you again.”

James kept fidgeting, darting between looking at Oliver and trying intently not to. “Is that enough though? You can hardly build anything upon not wanted to lose someone.”

“Oh, fuck that. The whole point of building relationships with people is to be around them, right? Do we still have things we need to work out? Absolutely, but I don’t want to go back to New York and go see Filippa and pretend we don’t both know you’re alive. I don’t want to go see a movie I know you’d hate and not be able to call you to complain about it. I lost arguably the person I care the most about in the world. I don’t care as much about how I get that back.”

James ducked his head, swiping at his eyes. “I swore I wasn’t going to cry today, but I guess that’s gone out the window.” He laughed a little, a harsh inhale cutting it off at the end. “You’re much too good for me. I, um, I guess I don’t want to lose you again either.”

Oliver smiled. “Then don’t.” And he reached out and took James’s hand.

•

Oliver’s flight was the next day, and as much as he had initially been looking forward to going home, now, standing outside the airport with James, it was the last thing he wanted.

“You have my number, right?” James asked one more time, pulling his jacket closer around himself as a cold gust of air blew down the sidewalk. “Store and home?”

Oliver held up his phone. “Both are here. I’ll call you once I land. We can talk more about how to stay in touch then.”

James nodded. He glanced at his watch. “We’re getting close to your flight. You should probably get going. Customs and all.”

“Yeah.” Oliver said, making no effort to move. “You know I’m going to have to come back to visit you eventually, right?” 

“You better.” James gave him a watery smile. “Because otherwise I’m going to be showing up in New York to track you down.”

“Hey, I thought you said that you weren’t going to cry.” Oliver teased. He picked his bag up and slung it over his shoulder, before going over and pulling James into a really awkward one-arm hug, the kind that would work much better if he hadn’t picked up his bag first. “I’ll talk to you in a few hours, okay?”

James hugged Oliver tighter for a few seconds, less hindered by the bag. “I hope you’re looking forward to a complete list of every book I’ve read in the last year, complete with discussion points and my personal and professional opinions.”

“Can’t wait.” James eventually let go, and Oliver gave him one last wave, before heading off to check his bag. When he turned back, almost to the gate, James gave him a huge, bright smile. It was almost like Dellecher again. Oliver thought he was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love being a dreadful writer.   
> Anyway, I hated this chapter, I hated how long it took me to post this, and the only good thing about it is that now it's done.  
> Some notes:  
> 1\. Owning a ridiculous number of copies of Frankenstein isn't that weird. I have to keep myself from buying more every time I go to a bookstore.  
> 2\. I say fuck a lot. It's a problem. I'm sorry.  
> 3\. The idea of Colin and James being facebook friends is just really funny to me. Let me have that.  
> 4\. I'm going to defend my constant lit references on account of I don't think you can be a Shakespeare nerd without also being a lit nerd. So, fight me.  
> 5\. Ya girl read Macbeth and like a page of King Lear, so there's that. Macbeth also got quotes because of some dreadful asignment that I stayed up until 1am to get done, which involved looking at that part like a hundred times.   
> (please stop reading now if you don't want to hear me complain)  
> 6\. On that note. I'm done writing for basically ever literally just because I don't have time. Everything is horrible and I do homework from the time I get home until 10 at night and still don't get anything done, and I can't deal with that and other stuff. Not to mention my parents intentionally trying to ruin my life and everythin I enjoy, meaning choir. So maybe I'll write something for this fandom again, or maybe not. For now, I'm just tired of writing shit and it never getting any better and not having time to improve. So there's that.
> 
> Rant over. Thanks, as always, for reading. And I'm sorry for forcing this upon the world.


End file.
